Snowbound Surrender. Louise Allen

      After dinner, he mingled with the other visitors, feeling the same out-of-place sensation he’d had in London these last few months. On one side of the room, a group of guests were playing charades. On the other, he could hear another crowd gathered around the pianoforte singing ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’. Neither occupation interested him, nor did the Buffy-Gruffy game or playing Hunt the Slipper with Miss Forsythe and the other young ladies.

      Everything was by turns too loud or too quiet. The laughter seemed forced and inappropriate. He wanted to shout at them that there was no reason to celebrate when good men had died while they’d stayed safe at home.

      But death and dying was the lot of a soldier. He’d known it when he had gone to war. Yet he had not understood how wrong it would feel to have survived. It seemed he would spend the rest of his life starting at loud noises and shadows and waking in the middle of the night unable to sleep because of the battle he was convinced must wait him in the morning.

      To steady his nerves, he decided to share the activity that Fred had chosen: honour guard to the punchbowl. He stayed on one end of the table, while his friend manned the ladle, both of them imbibing liberally.

      He’d drunk far too much since Waterloo, trying to numb his mind to peacefulness. But it was strange to see someone who was supposed to be celebrating his engagement dipping so deep and it made Jack wonder if there could be something wrong between the pair. But the days where he could ask personal questions of Fred were long gone, so he held out his glass to be refilled and they sat in silence.

      Nearby, a group of children were taking turns at the snapdragon bowl, pulling raisins from the burning brandy and shrieking as they singed their fingers. The younger of the two girls was leaning too far forward, her curls bouncing just out of reach of the flames. At any moment, there was likely to be an accident that would spoil the evening.

      Without waiting for permission, Jack rose from his chair and crossed behind the girl, pulling her back out of danger. Then he explained patiently of the risk she had been in and showed her that proximity was not the key to the game by rolling up his shirt cuff and snatching a fruit himself.

      He returned to the table to find Fred smiling fondly as he poured himself another cup. ‘My friend, you are truly a changed man. Remember the Christmas you leaned too far over the bowl and burnt off your eyebrows?’

      ‘I burned my cheek as well,’ he admitted. ‘There is still a patch that my valet swears cannot grow a whisker.

      Fred laughed heartily at the memory. Jack had no right to be annoyed by the fact, for he had laughed as well on the day it had happened, far too drunk to feel the pain.

      ‘If you had not had the damnedest luck, it would have been far worse. You walked away from accidents that maimed other men. Remember the time you rolled my curricle on the road to Basingstoke?’

      ‘It was the horses who were lucky,’ Jack said, wincing at the memory. ‘You threatened to trounce me to make up for the loss of them, but they escaped without so much as a bruised flank.’

      ‘I’d have hit you for destroying the carriage,’ Fred said. ‘But I was too busy popping your shoulder back into place.’

      ‘Then I brought up my accounts all over your best coat,’ Jack concluded, his guilt turning to dread as he looked back on what a reckless cad he had been when Fred had refused to hear his offer. The stories told so far were hardly the worst of what he had done.

      Fred grew more sombre. ‘When you said that you would change your character and make your fortune, I had little hopes that we would see you again. A man’s luck can only go so far and you had used up more lives than a dozen cats.’

      ‘It turned out I had a talent for staying alive,’ he replied.

      ‘And you have come back with the money as well,’ Fred said with an approving nod. ‘The pickings on the battlefield must have been good, for I understand you have purchased a fine house in Grosvenor Square.’

      ‘When I left, I had hardly enough money to keep myself alive,’ Jack added. With grandfather and parents dead, he’d had to beg his brother for the money to buy a commission, but had paid it back threefold after just a year.

      ‘When I heard that you had returned and were as yet unmarried...’ There was a long pause as his old friend tried to collect his thoughts. ‘I worried that we might have a similar argument to the one that I feared had ended our friendship.’ He reached out and touched Jack’s shoulder in a gesture of apology for words that had not even been said. ‘I cannot tell you how it delights me to be proven wrong. Since you have been here, I have seen the improvements in your character. In fact, compared to the layabout you used to be, you are almost too serious.’

      Jack tipped back his glass and drained it to prove that some of his bad habits had not completely disappeared. ‘If that was meant to be a compliment, it is not a very good one.’

      Fred shrugged, embarrassed. ‘It is just that I am both pleased and concerned. If there is anything that you need to ease your homecoming, you have but to ask.’

      ‘This visit was enough,’ Jack said, wishing that this awkward conversation could end. But in truth, being in this place with old friends had made him feel a little more human.

      ‘And, should you wish to ask me about Lucy’s future?’ Fred said, watching closely for his reaction. ‘Know that my answer now would be quite different than it was the last time.’

      He favoured Fred with a blank look and silence.

      ‘You were always quite fond of her,’ Fred added, pausing as if hoping Jack would comment. ‘And, at least until we hear something out of Thoroughgood, she is still free.’

      ‘And old enough to make decisions without your permission,’ Jack added.

      ‘True,’ Fred replied. ‘But that does not stop my interest in what becomes of her.’

      ‘Then do not try to push her on to me, as an alternative to the Vicar,’ Jack said, abruptly.

      ‘I did not think you would find it a hardship,’ Fred replied, indignant.

      ‘I would not,’ he snapped. ‘But she should not be tied to the sort of man who had planned to celebrate Christmas by putting a ball through his brain.’

      ‘You would not...’ Fred said, shocked.

      ‘Left to my own devices, it was a distinct possibility.’ Jack sighed. ‘And that is why I do not think myself a fit husband for your sister.’

      He set his punch cup aside, no longer thirsty. When he looked up, he was staring into the eyes of Lucy Clifton. She was several yards away from him, too far to speak without shouting over the din of the other, laughing guests. But words had never been necessary to understand each other. That, at least, had not changed with time.

      He shrugged back at her, still unsure what it was that she saw in him that held her interest, other than the ghost of his former self.

      She gave a sigh of disappointment at the doubtful look he had given her. Then, with a flash of her blue eyes, she glanced above her.

      Mistletoe.

      The kissing bough was not as impressive as the ones he remembered from the Clifton Hall of his youth. But the barest scrap of leaves and berries would serve the purpose if he dared to steal a kiss. Lucy was willing, waiting, radiant in the candlelight, her eyes sparkling in invitation, her cheeks glowing red from the effects